


Our Hearts Are Dynamite

by blackkat



Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, BAMF!Genma, Grief/Mourning, Humor, M/M, Pining, but also still close to canon, vaguely more realistic!shinobi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-31
Updated: 2016-08-10
Packaged: 2018-07-28 08:01:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7631716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackkat/pseuds/blackkat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Legacies, Genma thinks wryly, must be the heaviest thing in the known universe. Especially the failed ones.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by KAKASHI'S FACE, and also my desire to explore Genma learning the Hiraishin in a way I wasn’t able to in There's beauty in the breakdown. Mostly because that’s family fluff without many redeeming features, and I kind of wanted to write a slightly darker version of Konoha and its characters, especially Minato. Loud and fluffy shinobi are nice, but deadly assassins with no remorse to speak of are interesting too. 
> 
>  
> 
> (The title comes from Spark by Fitz and the Tantrums. If you want this fic’s soundtrack, it’s pretty much their _More Than Just a Dream_ album.)

Genma wakes when the bed shifts, ears instantly catching the faint whisper of cloth against skin and bare feet just touching the floor. He muffles a snort in the pillow under his head and rolls over, hearing the other man freeze.

“Sneaking out the window? That’s classy.”

Kakashi eyes him like he’s a particularly poisonous species of snake that may or may not try to bite, caught in the act of pulling on his pants. “…I was assuming you wouldn’t want me to stay.”

Settling onto his back, Genma brushes his hair out of his eyes and raises a brow. “Why?”

Kakashi's face—bare, and god _damn_ but Genma now understands why he keep it covered, because otherwise he’d cause accidents just walking down the street—doesn’t move, but his brows furrow slightly. It’s a look Genma's seen before; he calls it the ‘why must you have emotions and therefore be confusing’ expression. “Genma, we’re…friends.”

“True.” Vaguely. Mostly because of Gai, and their time in ANBU. Kakashi may have left the organization, but he was still there more than long enough for it to leave a mark.

“I was drunk last night,” Kakashi says very plainly, when he seems to realize Genma isn’t following his train of thought. “We both were. I'm…sorry.”

Those two little words feel like stone condensing in Genma's stomach, souring even the early morning sunlight falling through the window. _Not unexpected_ , he tells himself firmly, and long practice keeps his expression from showing anything. Not even Copy-Nin Kakashi can see through his mask—he’s had more than enough experience hiding things from this man in particular to know that.

“So that’s a no to morning sex, then?” he asks, and gives a dramatically wistful sigh. “Damn, and I had such high hopes, too.”

Kakashi still looks faintly wary, but the line of his shoulders isn’t ruler-straight anymore, and his expression is shading back into the lazily amused lines Genma is familiar with. “Even though we’re not drunk anymore?”

Genma favors him with his most inviting smile, stretching his arms over his head and arching his spine in a long, slow stretch that he knows shows off his muscles to their best advantage. “More fun this way, isn’t it? Now I can be sure you’ll remember it, een if last night is fuzzy.”

A grey eye slides down his torso, to the very edge of the clinging sheet wrapped around his hips. Kakashi hesitates, wavers, and then lets his pants drop back to the floor as he turns and slides back onto the bed. “You're going to make me late,” he lies shamelessly, as though he wouldn’t spend hours loitering near the Memorial anyway. “I'm supposed to meet my new team in a few hours.”

 _Those poor genin_ , Genma almost says, but he wasn’t _that_ drunk last night. It doesn’t take a shinobi to figure out just why Kakashi was drinking himself under the table with a vengeance. Genma understands trying to drown out the bad memories, and he can't imagine how Kakashi must feel, ending up on a team with Minato's son and Itachi's little brother.

“A few hours is plenty of time,” he says instead as Kakashi lowers himself on top of him. He slides his hands up Kakashi's leanly muscled sides, too firm to be a tickle, and tilts his head back as Kakashi leans in for a kiss. It’s light but intent, a tease as much as the fingers tracing over his hips, and Genma hums in appreciation. He loves kissing, would be more than happy to spend hours doing just that, and Kakashi is particularly good at it.

The Copy-Nin chuckles quietly, catching Genma's lower lip between his sharp teeth. Genma hums, and when Kakashi lets go he slides his tongue over the indents of the other man’s teeth, watching Kakashi's eyes follow the motion. That mismatched gaze flickers up to meet Genma's and Kakashi smiles impishly. “Plenty of time? That’s not very ambitious of you, Genma.”

“Hey, I’ll take what I can get,” Genma protests, and it sounds joking, but the truth of the words hits him low in the gut like a knife. To distract himself, he drapes an arm over Kakashi's shoulders, pulling him in again. There's a kiss, too brief for Genma's taste, and then Kakashi is sliding down, nipping along the line of Genma's throat. Genma's breath stutters, each scrape of teeth and press of lips making heat curl through his blood, and he tips his head back to give Kakashi more room to work.

“Like that?” Kakashi murmurs teasingly against his skin, and then sucks hard enough that it will definitely leave a mark.

It’s maybe possible that Genma whimpers.

“Fuck yes,” he manages when he can gather up enough brain cells to speak. “I fucking _love_ your mouth.”

Again, too close to truth for comfort, but Kakashi doesn’t notice, too busy leaving a trail of marks across Genma's collarbone and down his chest. He pauses at a nipple, humming thoughtfully, and then drags the flat of his tongue over it. Genma groans, twisting his fingers into flyaway silver hair made even messier by their tumble last night, and then gets a leg over Kakashi's and tries to tug him closer.

“You're a tease, Hatake,” he accuses, laughing a little. “And if you keep that up, I'm going to be more hickey than skin.”

A grey eye slits open, eyeing him speculatively. “Are you complaining?” Kakashi asks, and his hands slide up the insides of Genma's thighs, caressing gently. Genma's nerves are already strung too tight, though, and it makes him gasp, head falling back and eyes closing as he tries not to jerk under the touch. With a huff of amusement, Kakashi turns his ghosting fingers into a tight grip, urging Genma's legs apart so he can settle between them. “I’ll take that as a no.”

This time Genma really does laugh, even though it’s breathless. He shifts, spreading his legs to give Kakashi more room, and groans at the feeling of the other man slowly rocking against him. He’s hard, they both are, and part of him is surprised after everything they managed last night. The rest just wants _more_. “’Course not,” he says, and breaks off into a grunt as Kakashi gives his erection a teasing brush of fingers. “Mark me up all you want. Not like I want to _hide_ that I landed a sexy bastard like you.”

Kakashi smiles, and he’s so goddamn pretty it fucking _hurts_. Speculation about what's underneath his mask is one thing that’s pretty much always circulating through the village grapevine, but Genma has never really cared to chip in beyond a few attempts to lead newly promoted chuunin astray with wild stories of secret bloodlines or hideous scars. Now, though, he knows no one would believe him even if he _did_ want to go spreading tales. Kakashi's just too handsome.

“I’ll take you up on that, Genma,” he says, and sharp teeth—like an Inuzuka, Genma thinks dazedly, with the part of his brain that hasn’t turned to mush—bite down on the curve where neck meets shoulder. The bright bold spark of pain is so close to pleasure that Genma can't bite back a loud cry. He arches up, grabbing for Kakashi on instinct, and the world blurs out in brilliant white for a moment. At the same time, callused fingers slide over his cock, down his perineum, and brush lightly across his hole.

Genma groans, breathless and too caught up to hold himself back, and pushes down to get those fingers inside of him again. They’d both taken turns topping last night, but this is just about Genma's favorite position, and he’s more than happy to try for another round, no matter how sore it will leave him.

“Like that?” Kakashi asks, somewhere between amused and breathless.

“Uh-huh,” Genma manages, and gives his shoulders an impatient tug. “We gonna get around to the main event before I'm old and grey?”

Kakashi slides two fingers into him without warning, and says mildly, “Hey.”

Genma can't be bothered to think of a comeback, too busy pressing back into the stretch and twist with a throaty groan. There's another nip at his throat, then one on the underside of his jaw, and Kakashi drags his lips over both before leaning up to catch his mouth again. It’s a lot more heated than the last, messy and deep, and Genma doesn’t even have time to think before those clever fingers are sliding out again. He whines, wanting them back, and Kakashi makes a quiet, breathless sound, hands sweeping almost urgently over the mattress.

It takes a second to realize what he’s looking for, but as soon as he does, Genma reaches out, too, grabbing up the bottle of lube from where they’d discarded it last night. He dumps some out on his fingers, then reaches down to get a handful of Kakashi's hard cock. The man jolts forward with a stuttering gasp, thrusting into his touch, and Genma strokes him hard, covering his cock in as much slick as he can before flopping back again. He hooks a leg around the backs of Kakashi's thighs, urging him forward, and Kakashi gets a hand on himself and sinks forward with a groan.

The stretch is hard and fast and almost painful, everything Genma wants, and his breath stutters to a halt in his lungs as he closes his eyes, unable to make so much as a sound. Kakashi bottoms out, hips smacking against his ass, and freezes over him, breathing hard. He’s trembling, a fine tremor shaking his body, and when Genma manages to open his eyes again his gaze is fixed on Genma's face. Both eyes, and maybe someone else would find the lazily spinning Sharingan creepy, or a turn-off, but Genma knows what it means. Kakashi is going to remember this, _wants_ to remember this, and that’s more than enough for him.

“’M good,” he gets out, and the words are thick and clumsy in his mouth.

“You are,” Kakashi agrees, smiling again. His eyes crinkle, grey and black-red both warm, and Genma wants to kiss the beauty mark beneath his lip. So he does, because he’s not going to get another chance, hooks an arm around Kakashi's neck and buries the other in his hair. He leans up as much as he can with Kakashi's weight on him, kissing across Kakashi's jaw, kissing the mole, laying soft, careful kisses all the way up to the scar that cost him his original eye. Kakashi makes a quiet sound that’s definitely not a laugh, but isn’t a protest either, and braces himself with his elbows on either side of Genma's head. He kisses him again, slow and thorough, and shifts his hips in a careful, rolling thrust.

The cry that leaves Genma's throat is too loud for the thin walls of his apartment. His asshole neighbor will probably complain, but it’s worth it for the slick slide, the press of Kakashi inside him. Each push and retreat sparks across his nerves, adds heat to the fire that’s curling up his spine, and Genma can't stop the sounds that spill out into the air. He gets a hand on the headboard to stop himself from sliding and pushes back into each hard thrust. The tension in him winds higher and tighter, arcs through him like lightning, and when Kakashi drops his head onto Genma's shoulder the heat of his breath alone nearly makes him come undone. He gets his legs up around Kakashi's sides, his free hand in the sheet, and rides each hitch of Kakashi's body. It’s smooth and heavy and so unbearably hot, whiting out his thoughts and turning his muscles to water, and even though Kakashi's thrusts are hard they're steady, drawing it out until Genma is almost mindless with the desire to come.

Teeth brush his skin, then lips, then teeth again. Kakashi nips hard, almost drawing blood, and Genma's rhythm stutters. He loses his breath on a fractured cry, and the next thrust sends pleasure splintering behind his eyelids. There's a fumbled touch, a brush, and then Kakashi has a hand around him, jerking almost roughly. It’s too much, and Genma feels his muscles lock, a moan of Kakashi's name caught in his mouth as the coil snaps. He comes, hard and sudden enough to leave him gasping, and Kakashi fucks him through it, thrusts desperate. The aftershocks leave Genma almost too sensitive, put the sensation on the very edge of too much, and he loves it. Liquid muscles don’t want to work, but he tightens his legs around Kakashi anyway, urges him on, and finds enough words to breathe, “Come on, come on, fuck me. Gods, feels so good. Come on.”

Kakashi makes a low, almost wounded noise and shoves forward, bottoming out. Genma gasps at the forces of it, a whine breaking free, and Kakashi shudders, almost collapsing on top of him. His hips hitch once, twice, three times more before he stills, breathing hard and shaking a little. Genma tips his head back on the pillow, letting his eyes flutter shut, and curls a hand around the back of Kakashi's head, threading his fingers through soft silver hair. There's no use in pretending, no way to fool himself, but this is…nice. Kakashi is a solid, undeniable weight on top of him, is still softening inside of him, and Genma breathes out, feeling it tremble.

After a long moment, Kakashi finally lifts his head, running a thumb over the bite on Genma's collarbone. He presses his forehead to Genma's sternum for a moment, clearly getting his breathing back under control, and then slides back, pulling out. Genma bites back a soft cry, trapping it behind his teeth, and takes a moment to adjust to the empty feeling before he pushes himself up on one elbow. Kakashi is watching him, and the wary look is creeping back into his eyes as he kneels in the middle of the bed.

“Shower’s one door down on your left,” Genma offers, just before his muscles decide they’ve had enough for the moment and he falls back onto the mattress, just letting himself bask.

The bed shifts, cloth rustling, and Kakashi steps away. He picks up his pants, then his mask and shirt, and heads for the door. “Thanks,” he says offhandedly, with a vague wave, and it could be for letting him use the bathroom or for the fuck, Genma's not quite sure.

Honestly, he would really rather not know.

“Sure,” he answers, even though Kakashi is already gone, and then sighs, tossing an arm over his eyes and indulging in a few seconds of moroseness.

One night. Gods, what the fuck was he thinking?

But no. No, it was a good night, and a better morning, and Genma feels _amazing_ as long as he can forget the sensation like rocks in his stomach. He can, because this was good, and he’s actually kind of happy.

With that thought firmly in mind, he drags himself out of bed, wincing a little when he straightens too fast, then wipes himself down with a corner of the stained sheet and digs a pair of loose lounge pants out of the dresser. It’s his day off from regular duties, his ANBU squad is off rotation at the moment, and he just had some of the best sex of his life. He’s earned a lazy morning that he intends to take full advantage of.

Coffee is the first order of the day. Genma isn’t sure if Kakashi is a breakfast person, but if he is, he’s out of luck. Genma's fridge contains one box of moldy take-out, a withered orange, and a bunch of suspiciously un-wilted spinach Aoba gave him, probably just to fuck with him since he knows it’s the one vegetable Genma can't stand. Genma closes the door before he can let out all the cold air, reluctantly concluding that he maybe has spent _slightly_ too much time on missions and in the ANBU barracks recently, and instead pulls two mugs off the shelf. They're dusty, but it’s nothing a quick rinse can't fix, and by the time he has them dry the coffee is done and Kakashi is just stepping into the kitchen, fully dressed but with his mask down.

“I hope you don’t want cream or anything,” Genma says with amusement, offering him one of the mugs. “I think I need to go shopping.”

But Kakashi's uncovered eye isn’t on him; it’s fixed on the kitchen table, where Genma discarded his gear when he staggered back into his apartment yesterday morning. Genma blinks, glancing back as well, and—

Oh.

There are four Hiraishin kunai neatly laid out on the tablecloth, lined up and waiting for Genma's attention. They're not Minato's—the ones he gave Genma back when he first taught Iwashi, Raidou, and Genma his famous jutsu are in Genma's bedroom, tucked away in a safe place. But he’s gotten good at recreating them through trial and error, and he carries those just because.

Kakashi takes a step past him, oblivious to his presence, and touches the seal on the handle. “That’s not Minato-sensei's handwriting,” he says quietly.

“Nope, mine,” Genma confirms, leaning back against the counter and cradling his coffee between his hands. He doesn’t raise his head, but lets his eyes linger on Kakashi anyway, watching him trace the smaller prongs of the kunai almost absently. Genma would be fooled, but he knows all too well how much of an impact Namikaze Minato had on those around him, and on Kakashi in particular. When he died, Kakashi might as well have lost a second father. And after the way Sakumo died—

Genma remembers the weeks and months after the White Fang’s suicide. He remembers Kakashi, a kid with a heart too big for him and more sass than should fit into a kid that small, turning into an automaton focused on nothing but rules and orders. It was just…really, really sad.

He’ll never be grateful for Obito's death, because Obito was at least an acquaintance, if not a friend. But whatever Obito did, whatever he said that managed to break through Kakashi's shell—for that Genma is grateful. Even if Kakashi broke afterwards, it let him rebuild himself. It wasn’t the end of him.

(Rin almost was, but Genma tries not to think too much about Rin.)

“You can use the Hiraishin?” Kakashi asks, an edge of something Genma can't place in his tone, and it makes him blink.

“You can't?” he asks with some surprise. “But Minato taught you the Rasengan, didn’t he?” Kakashi doesn’t answer, but Genma takes that as confirmation regardless. “Yeah, he taught me, Raidou, and Iwashi, though we have to work together to use it. Wanted us to be able to keep up with him if he had to.”

“I’d forgotten you were on his guard,” Kakashi says, and that’s absent, too. It hurts, though Genma is able to hide it. Too long spent watching Kakashi's every move, looking for any sort of attention or tell, and that makes it easy to forget that Genma is the only one watching.

He pushes the thought—and the spike of pain—down as much as he can, focuses instead on the words, and shrugs a little. _For all the good it did_ , he wants to say, but keeps the words trapped behind his teeth. Shiranui Genma is an easygoing joker, levelheaded and loyal to Konoha above all else; no one else needs to see the bitterness and the helpless anger he keeps locked away inside. It’s better for everyone that way.

“I was,” is all he says.

Kakashi hums. “Twelve years is a long time to carry these around,” he offers. “Especially if you can't use the technique alone.”

That stings just as much as being forgotten, and the worst part is Genma can't tell if Kakashi is doing it on purpose. He wouldn’t think so, but Minato is a touchy subject with Kakashi, and given who’s on the genin team he has to meet in a few hours, those wounds are probably closer to the surface than normal right now.

Still, it’s been years since Genma last lost his temper, and he’s not about to let Kakashi break his cool. “Maybe,” he allows, watching the reflection of the overhead light in his coffee cup. “But Minato was the best of the best. Feels sacrilegious to just hang ‘em on the wall as ornaments.”

Minato was a wise, kind, benevolent Hokage. He was also one of the deadliest shinobi Konoha ever produced. Genma might have still been a chuunin during the war, but he remembers the aftermath of those battles. A thousand Iwa shinobi dead in a single afternoon, and Minato had still smiled at the messenger that came to deliver his next set of orders. That was the moment Genma knew he wanted to be close to the man, either as a student, a teammate, or a guard. He’d caught Minato changing, leaving his blood-soaked uniform behind to be burned, but his smile had still been so bright and welcoming.

Genma likes puzzles, likes people who are puzzles even more. Minato was one, more than most people. Take a remorseless assassin capable of devastating the enemy in a single battle, flip a switch, and suddenly he’s the older brother you never had, the happy, slightly ditzy friend you’ve always wanted. Genma always found it fascinating.

He comes from a family infamous for its assassins. His sister, his mother, his aunts, his grandmother—all of them wore their hitai-ate just as he does, tied backwards and inside-out to hide the plate. To hide their allegiance, because the Shiranui Clan has always had a reputation for taking any job as long as the price is right. The Shodaime welcoming them into Konoha didn’t change that; it just gave them a reason besides the money, a place to devote themselves to. And Genma always knew, growing up, just what his mother and sister did, what they were. They were kind, happy, cheerful people, and as soon as a mission came in they were cold, calculating killers. Genma finds the dichotomy amusing, though that’s likely his strain of black humor showing through.

He’s always gotten a huge kick out of seeing the new ANBU recruits when they tag along on an assassination. Afterwards they look at him like he’s the most dangerous monster they’ve ever see, grinning and joking even as he wipes the blood off his hands, and it takes everything in Genma not to laugh in their faces.

It’s a job, it’s his duty, it’s a way of life. Anyone outside of the village isn’t one of _them_ , and that means they're fair game. Those who betray the village, those who seek to harm it, those who overlook what’s best for it—Genma doesn’t care about them, and they might as well be dirt beneath his feet. Minato didn’t care, either, and it was the first time Genma had met someone outside of his family who could flip that switch and jump between friend and killer so easily.

Maybe that was one of the reasons Genma loved him so much.

When he lifts his gaze again, Kakashi is watching him, careful and a little assessing. Then that look is buried, covered up by lazy amusement. “Doesn’t suit your interior decorating scheme?” he asks lightly, and steps away from the table.

Genma's more than happy to change the subject. He chuckles, flicking a glance around his sparse, open apartment and plain beige walls, and offers Kakashi a crooked grin. “Well, yeah. Already crowded enough in here, right? Clutter drives me nuts.”

Kakashi hums in mock-serious agreement, pulling open Genma's fridge to check the interior. He pauses, assessing, and then offers, “Spinach salad with orange?”

Genma makes a face. “Help yourself. I’ll stick with coffee.”

“Ah, but breakfast is the most important meal of the day,” Kakashi informs him gravely. “You should eat what’s available, Genma. I think I felt ribs earlier.”

With a snort, Genma lifts his cup, then takes a pointed sip. “Coffee improves brain function,” he retorts, because he’s had this argument with Raidō more times than he can count. “Makes you smarter.”

“Smart enough to know that you shouldn’t skip breakfast?” Kakashi asks mildly, but his gaze is amused. Genma rolls his eyes, though he can't fight a smile.

“Don’t you have a genin team to torture, if you're done picking on my eating habits?” he asks.

Kakashi glances at the clock. “Oops,” he says without a hint of shame. “It looks like I'm an hour late for our meeting. You distracted me, Genma.”

Genma laughs at that boldfaced lie, because if they hadn’t entertained themselves in bed, Kakashi would have just spent the time standing in front of the memorial, talking to ghosts. As it is, he’ll probably make his team wait another hour at least while he does just that. “I don’t recall tying you to the bed, Kakashi, fun as it would have been.”

“Vile tempter,” Kakashi tells him solemnly, though his eye is crinkling as he pulls up his mask.

“Yeah,” Genma says dryly. “I'm a terrible influence. Look at that, I broke your running streak of perfect punctuality. For shame.”

Kakashi beams at him, touches two fingers to his brow in lazy salute, and then heads for the window. Genma watches him go, and doesn’t bother telling him that the door is unlocked. He already knows Kakashi won't use it anyway.

With his departure, the silence settles in. Genma studies his mug for a moment, then sighs and sets it down. He picks up Kakashi's untouched cup and pours it back into the carafe, figuring he may as well not let it go to waste. Standing in the kitchen feels strangely lonely, so he collects the pot and his mug and heads for the table, sinking into his favorite chair and wincing a little at the ache that slides up his spine.

 _I'm…sorry_.

Not something you ever want to hear from the man you’re in love with, Genma thinks a little wryly, brushing his fringe out of his eyes. It’s getting long, but since his hitai-ate holds it back, it’s nothing urgent.

Still. It’s not as though he expected anything different. He was more than a little tipsy last night, and Kakashi was definitely well on his way to plastered. Accepting the Copy-Nin’s pass at him seemed like a good idea at the time, and Raidō hadn’t been there to stop him the way he usually was. What few bits of sense he had been able to cobble together had informed him very clearly that this was not a good way to go about things, but…

He’d had a hope, maybe. Just a thought that he could get Kakashi to see him as something other than Gai's genin teammate, an acquaintance from ANBU, Minato's old bodyguard. Not that he had to worry about that last one, apparently. Not that he had to worry about _any_ of it, because Kakashi traded all of those labels for “one-night stand”, and that’s arguably even worse.

Nothing was ever going to come of it, and Genma's known that right from the beginning. Kakashi doesn’t form romantic attachments. In fact, Genma's never seen him keep a partner for more than a night. It was hardly a slight against Genma as a person, just…Kakashi being Kakashi.

That doesn’t mean it hurts any less, though.

Almost despite himself, Genma picks up one of the Hiraishin kunai by the blade, flipping it over with a twist of his wrist and catching the marked hilt as it drops. It’s perfectly clean, polished to a bright shine, with an edge Genma hones almost compulsively every time he checks his weapons.

_Twelve years is a long time to carry these around. Especially if you can't use the technique alone._

Genma's done it maybe three times, all together. By the time he was Minato's bodyguard, the war was over. There honestly wasn’t that much guarding to do, and for the most part Minato was more than able to defend himself against anything less than a bijuu. The Guard Platoon was there because it was expected, because someone had to watch for the assassination attempts from the shadows, and who better to do that than the village’s best assassins? And even then, there weren’t a lot. Minato was a dangerous man, with a lot of power behind him both political and personal, and not many people were stupid enough to challenge him. He was more likely to use his Flying Thunder God jutsu to jump to wherever Kushina was than to escape mortal danger.

He taught his three main guards, and made sure they understood the mechanics and the execution, but…Genma has never really _used_ the technique. Raidō and Iwashi are both relative powerhouses, after all, with large chakra reserves and lots of practice, and they both attempted it on their own and failed miserably. Genma simply didn’t bother; the Hiraishin is a memory from Minato, a way to protect the Hokage if he ever ends up back on the Platoon, but it’s not _his_ technique.

_Twelve years is a long time to carry these around. Especially if you can't use the technique alone._

It really is, isn’t it? Twelve years clinging to a ghost, with nothing but a few metric tonnes of regret to show for it.

Genma flips the kunai again, watching it spin three times in the air before it drops into his hand. Another toss, another three spins, a catch. It’s heavy, and he’s always surprised by the weight of it. Maybe he shouldn’t be.

This is stupid. He’s being morose because he’s _pining_ , and if Anko notices she’ll never let him live it down.

Still. Still. Kakashi's words are like a needle trapped beneath his skin, sharp and painful and impossible to forget. He probably didn’t mean anything by them, the same way he meant absolutely nothing when he winked at Genma and invited him to sit in his lap last night. The same way he meant nothing when he apologized for last night, for them both being varying levels of drunk, or when he left so casually.

Damn it. _Damn it_.

A hard flip of his wrist, and the Hiraishin kunai slams down, embedding itself in the table in front of Genma. He stares at the quivering blade for a long moment, evening out his breath on instinct, controlling his response, shutting away the tells. Only a handful of times in his life has he actually lost his composure, and this isn’t going to be one of them. Not over something that should be a good memory, a proud legacy left to him by a man who was the first father figure he ever had.

_Listen, Gen. Breathe in, breathe out. Focus, and let everything but the rhythm slide away. Don’t push the emotion down, let it go. Banish it, set it aside, because it’s not important. Look at the directions you can move._

_Decide._

Funny, how his mother’s mantra for dealing with an assassination mission works so well for other things, too.

 _Absolutely hilarious_ , Genma thinks, and picks up his gear.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things will work their way back around to KakaGen before long, I promise, but there's a bit of a detour first. I will say now that there's practically nothing on how the Hiraishin works as a jutsu, but I'm combining it with what's known about Minato and Tobirama’s specialties—namely, sealing and their amazing reflexes—and trying to work from there. Hopefully some of it’s vaguely accurate, but if not, I apologize. Call it fanon. Also, lots more meta on cheerful friendly assassins, because it interests me. 
> 
> If you ever want to come flail with me about headcanons or anything else, I'm **blackkatmagic** over on Tumblr and always open to talk, even through anon. :)

“Extended leave?” Sarutobi studies the form in front of him, then glances up at Genma with one brow faintly arched. “Very unusual for you to request time off, Genma. Especially this much of it.”

“Shikaku keeps saying I should take a vacation,” Genma says mildly, clicking his senbon against the back of his reinforced glove. He’s not rude enough to chew on it during a one-on-one meeting, even though it’s tempting. “I've got the time saved up, Hokage-sama.”

Sarutobi snorts a little. “That,” he says dryly, setting the papers aside, “was not my concern, Genma. Is everything all right?”

Genma debates whether to tell him the truth, hesitates over a half-lie that’s easily swallowed, and finally says, “I need to find Jiraiya-sama.”

That gets him all of Sarutobi's attention at once, and the old man’s brows both rise towards his receding hairline. “Oh?”

That’s a demand for explanation, even if it doesn’t sound like it. Genma winces a little, but doesn’t try to sidestep the question. “I have a couple of questions about the Hiraishin, and the library’s light on information. Minato didn’t leave any scrolls behind, so…” He trails off, lifting one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. “Jiraiya-sama might know.”

Sarutobi is silent for along moment, eyes fixed on Genma's face. Then he looks away, picks up his pen, and signs his name on the bottom of both sets of forms. “I’ll file these in the appropriate places,” he says. “Whether or not your search is successful, I expect you back at least two weeks before the Chuunin Exams. I’ll need all of Konoha's shinobi present for security reasons. However, given the nature of your questions, I’ll mark you as on a training trip and see to it that your pay is deposited for you.”

When Genma opens his mouth to protest, Sarutobi glances at him, and the look is mild but nevertheless stops the words in Genma's throat. “The Hiraishin is a technique with few equals, Genma, and no potential successors able to use it anywhere near Minato's level. If you're able to learn it, even with just a fraction of Minato's ability, I am more than happy to give you half-pay on a training mission for the rest of your career.”

It’s probably a Kage thing, Genma thinks, to be able to jump between sentiment and ruthless practicality at a moment’s notice. He accepts that reasoning with a nod, entirely able to understand it when it’s phrased like that and not as blind generosity, and rises to his feet. “Thank you, Hokage-sama.”

“Genma.” The Hokage offers him a smile, deepening the many lines in his face. “Good luck. The last report I received puts Jiraiya on the border with Wave Country, which should help with your search.”

Genma bows, murmuring his thanks, and then heads out of the office at a fast clip, wanting to get the rest of his goodbyes over with so he can leave.

This isn’t about Kakashi, not really. He was the catalyst, maybe, but Genma has been stuck in a rut for almost twelve years now, his life very much the same. It’s a decent life, but not satisfying, and…it could be. Minato taught him a technique that he only ever shared with two other people, gave him a way to be something different, something more. Genma's an assassin, a killer, and he doesn’t mind it. Classmates, teammates, friends—they all think he’s strange, call his happiness a mask, call his ruthlessness a shield. They don’t understand, but Minato did.

A thousand enemy shinobi killed in a single afternoon, Genma thinks as he hits the street. That’s something terrible, something awful, something to strike fear into the hearts of anyone who might have stood against Konoha when the Yondaime was their leader.

Genma doesn’t want to rival Minato. He knows he’ll never be the same as the Yondaime in all his glory. But it wasn’t Kakashi he left the legacy of his power to. It was his guards. Raidō and Iwashi are chakra powerhouses, decent at control, but even though Genma's reserves are smaller he is fucking _brilliant_ at pinpoint chakra control. It’s one of the benefits of being an assassin.

Minato's chakra control was legendary. Genma might not be able to rival the great Yellow Flash, might never even come close, but he can try. He _will_ try, because he’s sick of everything being the same, sick of the knowledge that he couldn’t save Minato haunting him every time he looks at those kunai, sick of pining like a tragic heroine in a bad novel and hoping that one day Kakashi will look at him and _see_.

Okay. So maybe Kakashi has a _little bit_ to do with his decision.

Still. This is moving on, moving forward. Genma got his one night, knows what sex with Kakashi is like, and knows it isn’t going to happen again. Maybe he wishes it were otherwise, but that’s fine. It’s life. Not everything works out the way one hopes, and sometimes all that’s left is reassess, readjust, and just keep walking.

He pushes open the door of the Jounin Standby Station, hitching his pack up a little higher on his shoulder, and is almost mowed down by two blurs with dark hair and chuunin vests.

A high leap carries him right over the pair’s heads, and he lands lightly next to an exhausted-looking Aoba. The other tokujo gives him a halfhearted wave before he drops his head back onto the couch cushions.

“Duck,” the man warns.

On instinct, Genma does. A heartbeat later Kotetsu goes flying over his head in what was probably meant to be a tackle-hug, and Izumo yelps and snaps, “Kotetsu! Knock it off!”

“Genma!” Kotetsu says brightly, spinning around and completely ignoring his partner. “Do you have a mission? I thought you had the day off.”

At that, Aoba looks up, too, frowning faintly. On the other end of the couch, Raidō puts down his paperwork, expression concerned. “Genma?” the big man asks. “If you're overworked, I can tell Sarutobi-sama—”

Genma cuts him off with a smile and a dismissive wave. “Nah. It’s not a mission, just a training trip. I'm not really sure when I’ll be back, though, so I wanted to say goodbye.”

“You’d better.” That’s Izumo, quiet but insistent, coming up behind Kotetsu with faint worry in his eyes. “Is something wrong?”

“Just trying to expand my options a bit,” Genma says easily, not quite willing to reveal what he’s really going for. They’ll either get their hopes up or tell him he won't be able to do it, and Genma doesn’t want to deal with either scenario. Easier to just be vague.

Aoba hums, faintly suspicious. “Is this about you taking Kakashi home last night? Because if I need to kick his ass…”

Genma levels a speaking look at him, trying to convey just what level of bullshit he thinks that is.

Aoba grimaces and raises his hands in surrender. “All right, all right, point made. But seriously. I will happily get Anko and Yugao on board, and we’ll all go kick his ass together. Secretly. At night. When he’s least expecting it so we have a chance to run away before he fries us.”

Kotetsu laughs, latching onto Genma's shoulder and standing on his toes to see over it. “Very brave and impressive, Yamashiro. I bet you’d hide behind the girls the whole time, too.”

“Have you met those girls? They’re freaking _scary_. I’d like to meet one person who _wouldn’t_ hide behind them, given the chance,” Aoba protests.

Raidō’s eyes are on Genma, ignoring the byplay, and if anything he looks even more concerned now. “Gen?” he asks quietly, under the cover of Kotetsu, Izumo, and Aoba's bickering.

Genma gives his best friend a real smile, not trying to hide anything. “I'm good now. Won't say no to a few weeks away from the village, though.” Seeing Raidō’s eyes narrow, he adds, “Leave it, Rai. It was a one-night stand. Those are always awkward afterwards.”

“If you say so,” Raidō allows, if a little doubtfully. “Keep your eyes open on the road, okay?”

“Always.” When Raidō rises to his feet, Genma gladly accepts the tight hug he offers, then steps back. “Stay out of trouble, okay? I'm not going to be here to pull your asses out of the fire.” He grins pointedly at Aoba, and turns away.

Aoba's loud, “Hey! Hey! Why do I feel like my character just got personally attacked?” follows him out into the sunlight.

It’s a little after noon, and the streets are busy. Genma winds his way through the crowds to the gate, wondering how Kakashi's genin team is doing, if Kakashi is subjecting them to the same bell test Team Minato went through. Probably, knowing the way Kakashi clings to the past. It’ll be good for them, though. Character-building. That’s what they call it when you inflict a trauma like Kakashi on three innocent little children, isn’t it?

Hayate waves him out the gate, covering a cough as he moves to block the way of a merchant group, and Genma skirts the carts and carriages as he waves back. Then the road is open before him, clear of most people, dusty in the spring air where the trees don’t shadow it. Genma takes a breath, touches the Hiraishin kunai hanging in clear view on his belt, and walks forward. The hard-packed earth is silent underfoot, no crunch of stones to give him away, but that’s more habit than worry.

_Look at the directions you can move._

_Decide._

Easy enough. There's back into the village or forward, and Genma isn’t about to turn around now. Jiraiya is directly east, and if he keeps a good pace, Genma can reach the Fire Country border in two days. He might not have Minato's speed quite yet, but he’s hardly slow.

He thinks of Minato the last time he saw him, in between setting up a safe house where Kushina could give birth and making sure the village would be overseen during his supposedly brief absence. He’d been so happy, so bright and enthusiastic and worried all at once, and Genma had laughed at him when he tripped over his own feet in his excitement. Minato had laughed too, had clapped him on the shoulder and smiled before he had to dart away again, and it was the last time Genma ever saw him face-to-face.

That smile haunts him now, with all the things Genma could have said. _Let me come with you. What if you need a guard? I'm not weak, let me help. I would rather cut out my own heart than betray you. Can't you sacrifice my life instead of yours? If I knew the Hiraishin and could manage it alone, would you have let me help then?_

Legacies, Genma thinks wryly, must be the heaviest thing in the known universe. Especially the failed ones.

 

 

The Sannin Jiraiya isn’t exactly hard to find. Genma tracks a trail of offended women and suddenly-wealthy prostitutes up the border from Hot Springs Country towards Rice Paddy Country, and finally corners him in what used to be Yugakure. Not that Jiraiya knows he’s been cornered, judging by the way he’s drinking.

Genma watches from the building across from the bar for a few moments, studying the not-quite-as-drunk-as-he’s-pretending-to-be lurch that puts Jiraiya face-down in a woman’s cleavage. She shrieks and smacks at him, and Jiraiya reels back, spilling apologies.

Gods, Genma's sister would have gutted him and then choked him with his own intestines.

With a faint snort, Genma tucks his hitai-ate away in his pack, switches out the senbon he’s chewing on for one with a heavy sedative on the tip, and leaps lightly down from the rooftop. It takes slightly more finesse in off-duty clothes than it would in his usual uniform, but Genma's not trying to draw attention to himself. Unless they're being subtle, shinobi _always_ draw the eye—civilians fear them and stand in awe of them at the same time. Those who live closer to the Hidden Villages don’t seem to feel it as much, but even in an old shinobi village like this, it’s still present.

No one looks up as he steps into the bar, but Genma knows he’s not a noticeable man—it’s the main reason he keeps his blond hair dyed brown. He can blend in with a crowd, complete a kill, and be gone before anyone even registers his face. That same skill serves him now, letting him walk right across the middle of the room as though he’s been there a thousand times before. Jiraiya is on his left, calling for more sake, and Genma catches the eye of the very beleaguered waitress who’s subtly trying to pry the Sannin’s arm off her waist. Her eyes narrow, and Genma pulls his senbon from his mouth and flicks it across the room.

Jiraiya twitches and swats at the back of his shoulder, as if trying to brush off a fly, then freezes. Arms crossed over his chest, Genma watches him wobble a little in his seat, wavering visibly. That sedative tends to make the world spin in high enough doses, Genma knows, and he wasn’t about to take any chances that Jiraiya would just knock him out and go back to his “research”. Better to do this the subtle way.

The waitress finally manages to pull free as Jiraiya slumps over, landing face-first on the bar this time, and she hisses something at him that makes even Genma raise a brow as he approaches. Hands on her hips, she glares at the Sannin, then turns to Genma with a bright smile. “Thank you! I was just about to kick him in the nuts, but your way means I get to keep my tip.”

Genma laughs at that, offering her a crooked grin in reply. “Figured I’d save you the trouble, ma’am. Can I take him off your hands?”

“Steal his wallet before you dump him somewhere,” is her suggestion. “He seems to have money to spare, and it would serve the asshole right.” With a huff and a pointed kick to Jiraiya's ankle, she ducks back behind the bar and starts collecting glasses. Genma shakes his head a little and grabs Jiraiya's arm, dragging it over his shoulder and pulling the much bigger man as close to upright as he can get him. It would honestly be easier just to drag him, but that’s a sure-fire way to get mistaken for an enemy when the drug starts wearing off, and Genma would rather keep his head attached.

He’s already pushing things enough just hitting Jiraiya with a senbon, but he’s also heard stories from Ebisu—who is chronically terrible with faces, and can never recognize anyone without extended exposure—about getting knocked out several times trying to stop a creepy hermit from spying on the baths. Since Genma has a healthy respect for Jiraiya's abilities, if not his way with women, he’s happy to let Jiraiya think he passed out and Genma dragged him back to an inn.

Thankfully, Genma picked a hotel only a few hundred feet from the bar, in anticipation of this very situation, so he doesn’t have to drag Jiraiya's heavy ass very far, just down the street and up a flight of stairs. In a moment of generosity, he lets Jiraiya drop onto the bed, and instead takes the window seat, pulling out another set of three-pronged kunai and his ink and brushes. He’s been making more whenever he had to take a break the last few days, and one of his sealing scrolls is now almost full.

Genma isn’t entirely sure they’ll ever get used, because his ability to do the Hiraishin without turning himself inside-out or something is still a very big question mark, but it gives his hands something to do. The seals have to be precise and perfect, but there's a little room for embellishment, and Genma takes it. He doesn’t want his kunai to look exactly the same as Minato's—he’s not Minato, after all, and he’s not trying to be. Besides, black hilts with white seals suit him better; they're not as flashy, and Genma is a silent killer at heart.

Sometimes that makes him a hero, too.

Sometimes it just makes him a murderer.

Genma accepted it long ago. He made his first kill in the war, like most of his classmates, but his was on a training trip with the rest of Team Chōza, rather than after his promotion to chuunin. Ebisu had been horrified, Gai worried, but Chōza had stared at him for a long moment afterwards, expression strange. Now, looking back, Genma's fairly sure he was waiting for Genma to react, to tremble, to regret, but—

Death was a regular thing to him, growing up. Assassins, no matter how good, have a high mortality rate. Genma lost both of his aunts by the time he was nine, and his mother when he was ten. His sister survived right up until the Kyuubi attack, a good bit beyond the average, but killing humans doesn’t quite translate to killing chakra constructs, and she lost that fight. He always knew what could happen, what it meant when they went out on a mission with their hitai-ate tied on backward. His mother taught him pressure points and vulnerable spots and how to kill the way other parents told their children bedtime stories.

Genma grew up knowing how to separate people into categories—friend, useful, useless, enemy. Friends are people you do anything for, protect with your dying breath. Useful people you use until you can't anymore, and then you either kill them or discard them. Useless people are just in the way, and don’t matter whether living or dead. Enemies you kill as fast as possible, with no hesitation.

Genma's always been particularly good at that last part.

He’s just putting the finishing touches on his seventh kunai when Jiraiya groans, very clearly coming around. Genma looks up with mild interest, legs crossed on the thin cushion and senbon with a somewhat nasty poison on one end in his mouth. He doesn’t quite think Jiraiya will attack him, not in a place so divorced from his research, and especially not after Genma identifies himself as a Konoha shinobi, but he’d also rather not take the chance and end up dead.

“Fuck,” Jiraiya growls, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes. “Who drugged my drink?”

At least he can identify the aftereffects of that sedative, even if he didn’t notice it hitting him. Genma slides off his perch, ignoring his shoes, and pads barefoot across the room to dig through his pack. “Here,” he says, pulling out a capsule of pale yellow powder, and pretends he doesn’t notice the way every line in Jiraiya's body suddenly speaks of alertness. “I'm not quite sure what you got dosed with, but this should help with the hangover, at least.”

When he straightens, Jiraiya is watching him warily, eyes faintly narrowed. He glances at the pill in Genma's hand, then at the senbon in his mouth, and says dryly, “Not quite sure?”

Genma offers the man his best carefree, innocent smile and tips one shoulder in a shrug. “Not a clue, Jiraiya-sama.”

 _Bullshit_ , Jiraiya's expression says, but he doesn’t call Genma on it. “You look familiar, kid. Do I know you?”

“You slept with my mom once,” Genma tells him cheerfully, and grins at the sudden flash of panic that crosses Jiraiya's face. “No, no, I don’t mean it like that. I was already born, and I'm not looking for revenge. She said you were decent, though nothing to write home about.”

Jiraiya looks like he can't decide whether to be relieved or insulted, and finally just settles on exasperation. “Right,” he says, a little warily. “That’s not where I've see you before, though.”

“It’s not.” Genma scoops up one of his finished kunai and tosses it gently across the room, telegraphing his movements. Jiraiya catches it easily, then stops, eyes fixed on the seal marking the hilt. Sinking back down onto the window seat, Genma pulls a leg up under him and leans back against the cool glass. “Shiranui Genma. I was one of Minato's bodyguards when he was Hokage.”

Quiet grief slides over Jiraiya's face as he turns the Hiraishin kunai over in his hands, easily recognizable because it’s the mirror of what Genma feels so often. “Shiranui, right. I remember. Your mom was terrifying, kid. Looked like the perfect traditional housewife, but would kill you as soon as look at you if she so much as thought it was a good idea.”

That’s definitely a kinder description than a lot of people default to. _Unhinged_ is something Genma heard a lot of growing up, applied to his whole family. It’s probably true. He’s only ever met a handful of people who react the way he does, and most of them were related to him. The rest are either career ANBU or Minato.

“She liked you,” Genma says, corking his bottle of ink and setting it aside. “Thought you were funny.”

Jiraiya's smile is small and wistful and a little wry. “Decent performance and all? Kind of her to says so. But if I remember correctly, she passed a long time ago. What brings you all the way out here, with these?” He lobs the kunai back, and Genma snags it out of the air and tosses it up, catches it, and does it again.

“Minato told me he taught himself Hiraishin when he was your student,” he explains. “I was hoping you’d know more about it than the library in Konoha, since I looked there and came up with less than nothing. He showed his three most frequent guards the basics, but I've never managed it on my own before.”

Jiraiya stares at him for a long moment, dark eyes assessing and cool, and then sighs. “Toss me that pill,” he says gruffly. “My head is killing me, and you don’t look like the kind of person to let me sleep off whatever you hit me with.”

Genma grins at him and does as requested. “Me, Jiraiya-sama? I wouldn’t even begin to know how to sneak up on one of the Sannin.”

“I'm sure,” Jiraiya mutters, distinctly sour. “And you look like you got mauled by a love-struck mosquito, I hope you know.”

Surprised, Genma glances down at himself, and then has to laugh. “More like a wolf,” he corrects. Summoning contract with nin-ken or not, Kakashi definitely has teeth like his father’s summons, and the hickeys and bites haven’t faded at all. They're also plenty visible now that Genma's out of his uniform. Not the end of the world, but more memorable than he’s fully comfortable with being outside of Konoha.

Jiraiya holds up his hands. “Unless it was a busty beauty, I’d rather not know. You got leave?”

“Permission for a training trip. The Hokage wants someone to be able to use Minato's jutsu, and no one else seems inclined to learn.” Hero-worship more than anything, Genma thinks, and it’s definitely something he’s guilty of himself. The Yellow Flash was a hero rivaled only by his predecessors in the Hokage's seat, and no one since can compare. No one has even wanted to try.

But this isn’t about comparing. This is about honoring what Minato left him by actually _using_ it the way he should, and Genma's not about to let this opportunity pass him by.

With a grunt, Jiraiya swallows the antidote and collapses back onto the bed. “If you wake me up before dawn, we’re going to have some problems,” he warns.

 _I’ll have to remember to duck, then_ , Genma thinks, and gives Jiraiya a lazy smile. “Yes, sir.”

Jiraiya stares at him narrowly for a long moment, then sighs in what's clearly resignation and closes his eyes. “I bet you were Minato's favorite,” he says, and it sounds like a complaint more than a compliment.

Still, Genma is more than happy to take it as the latter. Whether he was or not, it’s a nice thought.

 

 

“Well,” Jiraiya says thoughtfully, studying Genma's version of the target seal. “I think you’ve already got the first part down—the target seal is different for every user, and this one should be different enough to work for you. Sure you don’t want to change it more? Might cut down on some of the problems.”

“It’s good the way it is,” Genma says, though what he means is more along the lines of _I’ll fight you if I have to, but I'm keeping this one_. Jiraiya is fairly insistent that he can't use Minato's by himself, and that the execution has to be unique between users, but this is for Minato, and for Genma himself. He’s not going to stray too far from the version the Yellow Flash taught him.

Jiraiya eyes him warily for a moment, then pinches the bridge of his nose, mutters something that sounds like “Definitely Minato's favorite,” and tosses the kunai. It thuds into the trunk of a tree and sticks there, only the white lines of the seal standing out against the early-morning dimness. “Okay, kid, go for it. You remember what Minato told you about how it works?”

“More or less.” Genma double-checks the target seal on the inside of his forearm, making sure it hasn’t smeared, and then turns his gaze to the kunai. It’s only about a hundred feet away, and he saw Minato makes jumps halfway across the continent as easy as breathing. This should be just as simple.

Space-time ninjutsu. Simple. Right.

He takes a breath, gathering up the determination that’s brought him all the way here, and closes his eyes. The kunai is stationary, there's no stress of battle, no opponent to worry about. It’s just a step, a bit of will. He has to _want_ to go where the kunai is, and then it’s as easy as jumping into the pocket dimension and letting it spit him out right next to the other target-seal. Minato could do it in his sleep. Genma's done something vaguely similar before, even if he had Raidō and Iwashi to help him guide the jutsu.

Just a step. It will be fine.

He can feel Jiraiya's eyes on him, patient but watchful. Can feel the thrum of his own chakra, carefully measured and regulated. Can feel the seal on his arm, bright like a live wire and written with blood-infused ink to bind it to him personally. If this works, he’ll use that same ink to tattoo it permanently into his skin, the same way Minato did his.

Just one step.

Another breath, and Genma lets a bare spark of power touch the seal on his arm.

Too fast for him to react, it activates. There's a brief, blurred impression of darkness, a flash of light returning, and Genma yelps. He doesn’t even have time to brace himself before he slams shoulder-first into a tree—not the tree with the kunai, even, which would be a decent enough start. No, he hits a tree about four hundred feet to the left, bounces off, and rolls across the ground to crash into a boulder.

Genma wheezes, coughs, and tries to breathe through the brand new ache in his ribs.

“Not quite,” Jiraiya says from his perch on another rock, manuscript spread out across his lap. “Try again.”

“Really?” Genma coughs, staggering to his feet. “I thought that went perfectly.”

“Again, kid. That smart mouth of yours isn’t doing anything but wasting my time, and I've only got so much to spare.”

Well, that’s him told. Genma braces his hands on his knees for a moment, evening out his breath, and then pushes up straight. He eyes the side of the tree where the Hiraishin kunai is planted for a moment, barely visible from this angle, and then sighs. It’s not as though jumping from here will be any different, so he focuses on his chakra, focuses on the seal, and tries again.

Darkness, blurred movement, light, _pain_.

“Ow,” Genma says from between gritted teeth, peeling himself off the trunk of a tree. He’s about twenty feet up, a good hundred feet left of the target, and not at all pleased with this result. Scraping a handful of dry twigs out of his hair, he drops back to the ground, landing as lightly as he can so as not to jar his bruised ribs.

This time, Jiraiya is watching him with something very close to amusement, but when Genma glances up at him, hoping for a tip or something, he just tips his chin at the kunai again. “Well? What are you standing around for? You're supposed to be over there.”

It’s like his genin days all over again, though Chōza was at least _nice_ about being a slave-driver. Genma can already tell that’s definitely not going to be the case here.

This time, he tries adding more power, hoping that will give him more control. A large jolt to the seal, and—

 _Thud_.

Head ringing, Genma picks himself up from the bare ground he just skidded across, pries out the handful of sharp-edged rocks embedded in his skin, and staggers upright again. Okay, discovery: more chakra equals more speed, and—given the fact that the wood where he was training is only a blur of green on the edge of the horizon—also more distance. Fantastic.

Well, Minato could teleport without having line of sight. Genma supposes he might as well try to do the same, since the only other way back is walking.

Less power, barely a touch compared to the first two tries, and this time he’s able to register the flash of darkness that is the pocket dimension the seal creates. It’s gone in an instant, the world snapping back into sharp focus, and Genma goes hurtling headfirst over a log and right into the icy creek.

When he drags himself out, dripping and shivering, Jiraiya is laughing at him, and Genma sighs. He rakes a hand through his sodden hair, wrings out the bottom of his shirt, and braces himself again.

 _Surely there's a limit to even your stubbornness, Gen_ , Raidō had said to him once.

 _Maybe_ , Genma thinks, and reaches for his chakra. _But if there is, I sure as hell haven’t hit it yet_.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is going to be longer than I intended because I somehow tripped over a plot?? So apologies for that, I'm hopeless.

_Well, Minato_ , Jiraiya thinks wryly, _you sure know how to pick them, don’t you?_

He casts a glance at the sky, judging the time, but makes no move to rise from his seat on the rock. It’s getting dark, and the air has gained a bite. By all rights he should be hightailing it back to Yugakure and his hotel room. Should have done it hours ago, in fact, because he’s in the very literal village of hot springs, with a potential for research that gives him a nosebleed just thinking about it, and yet he’s wasting his time out in the middle of the forest with a boring guy.

Well. Maybe not so much boring, Jiraiya supposes.

Setting another completed chapter aside, he looks up, searching for a head of brown hair among the green of the leaves, and finds the kid slumped over next to a tall tree, one hand braced on the trunk like it’s the only thing holding him upright. He’s panting for breath, and Jiraiya can see the fine tremor of complete exhaustion running through his muscles. At this point Genma is only holding off the beginnings of chakra exhaustion through sheer pigheadedness, though admittedly that’s something he appears to have in excess.

_Oh yeah. This one’s definitely one of yours, isn’t he, Minato?_

He could tell the kid to stop, send him back to the inn, wrap this up for the night. But he doesn’t, because Minato never listened when Jiraiya told him to knock it off and go home, and…maybe, whether Genma would listen or not, Jiraiya just wants to pretend. Pretend for half a second that his world isn’t fractured, that the little blond brat with a smile brighter than the sun is still present in some way.

Shiranui Genma is not Namikaze Minato, but Jiraiya sure as hell wishes he was.

It’s not fair to the kid, the man. Not healthy. Not right. But—

But Jiraiya spent an entire year hauling Minato out of trees and rivers and on one memorable occasion a garbage pit while he was expanding on Tobirama’s Hiraishin, and the first time Genma hit a tree, it was all Jiraiya could think about for a moment.

Jiraiya still can't tell whether he regrets agreeing to help. He’s trying not to think about it too closely.

There's a rattle of branches, a thump, a groan. Jiraiya glances up from his lazy doodling to see Genma slumped on the ground where he obviously fell out of the tree above, boneless in a way that speaks of unconsciousness. After a moment hoping he’ll rouse on his own, Jiraiya sighs, seals his manuscript back into a scroll for safekeeping, and pushes to his feet.

“You're killing me here,” he complains to his captive audience, clumping over to crouch down beside the tokujo. Looking at him like this, it’s easy enough to remember the kid’s mother, willowy and sly with a spark of crazy to her that Jiraiya couldn’t quite resist. It reminded him of someone else, someone lost, and he wasn’t—isn’t—above using other people to help him remember those who aren’t with him anymore. To hear that she liked him, that she mentioned him to her son, is faintly bittersweet, knowing that.

Jiraiya had liked her too, but less for herself and more for the memory of golden eyes and a cunning ruthlessness unmatched even in their bloodstained world.

The memory of Minato's guard is foggier, faded with time and distraction. Shinobi might, as a rule, notice more about their surroundings than most civilians could ever hope to, but what isn’t necessary is quickly dismissed.

With shinobi, a lot of things are like that. It’s not something Jiraiya cares to remember, though it’s usually harder than he’d like to forget.

With another heavy sigh, Jiraiya reaches out and slaps Genma's face, not quite as gently as the situation calls for. It’s only partially payback for the drug-induced hangover he woke up with this morning. “Hey. Hey, kid. Up. I'm not hauling your gangly ass back to the village, so get up already.”

The slap gets him another groan, a twitch, and hazel eyes fluttering open. Shiranui Tsuyu’s eyes, as best he can recall. Genma doesn’t look all that much like her otherwise, but that mix of brown and green is memorable. “Did I make it?” he asks, blinking, and tries to push himself off the ground.

Jiraiya snorts, glancing up at the kunai still planted in a tree a good fifty feet from them. “Not quite. Come on, you owe me dinner.”

Genma doesn’t protest, and he accepts the hand Jiraiya offers to get him to his feet. He’s quiet the whole way back to Yugakure, and even if Jiraiya doesn’t trust the peace, he lets it last until they're seated in one of the small restaurants on the main street.

“Figuring it out?” he asks gruffly once their waiter—male, unfortunately—has taken their orders and retreated.

Genma's eyes are on his tea, watching the pale liquid swirl in his cup. “Mm. Maybe.”

It’s like pulling teeth. Kid’s a lot quieter than Minato ever was, at least; Minato had a tendency to babble, especially about jutsus. Or Kushina. Mostly Kushina, now that Jiraiya thinks back. And—he’s curious, abruptly, despite having avoided thinking about anything beyond the immediate all day. He pushes his water to the side, studying the tokujo, and asks, “Why now? Minato's been dead for twelve years.”

And gods, it _hurts_ , because Minato was everything Jiraiya ever dreamed of having in a son, right down to the blond hair, but he’s gone, and all of Jiraiya's running hasn’t taken away that knowledge.

There's a long pause. Genma produces a senbon seemingly out of thin air and flips it across the backs of his fingers without looking down, more nervous tick than conscious show of dexterity. “I know,” Genma says quietly, and glances out the window. A wry, crooked smile, and he admits, “I hadn’t even really thought about it until a few days ago. But when one door closes and all that.” He tips a shoulder in a partial shrug, clearly content to leave the matter there.

Watching him, Jiraiya contemplates pushing. It takes guts to track down one of the Sannin, drug him, kidnap him, and then immediately ask for help with training. Jiraiya's been a shinobi long enough to recognize what Genma was _really_ saying with the display: _I could have killed you. I'm good enough. I don’t need you to make me better, but I'm going to ask anyway._

Very much a shinobi way of doing things, he thinks wryly. Come at them sideways and upside down in the dark. Give yourself the high ground even when you're supposed to be asking a favor. Use any means necessary to get what you want, and make sure whoever you want it from has a vague idea of your abilities—not enough to stop you, but enough to make them wary, make them give in more quickly. Genma's textbook, as far as that goes, very clearly holding to the mindset that some of the smaller clans always have. The larger ones, like the Senju and the Uchiha and the Uzumaki, had the numbers to indulge in morality and principles. The rest, like Orochimaru’s family and the other innumerable small clans that actually make up the bulk of the Hidden Villages—they didn’t have that luxury.

Given the state of the Senju and Uchiha and Uzumaki, maybe that’s for the better.

Still, it’s a different mindset, more ruthless, more calculating. They're raised to do whatever’s necessary, and Jiraiya can remember all too well the confusion kids from small clans experience when confronted with civilian-style morals and restraint.

 _I don’t understand_ , Orochimaru had told him once on a mission, laying out their blankets on the hard earth in the forest after the inn refused them rooms. _They're the ones who hired us_.

 _We came back covered in blood,_ Jiraiya had told him. _Of course they're going to be scared_.

He can still see the complete lack of comprehension in Orochimaru’s face as he attempted to explain why civilians thought murder was bad, and violence was bad, and that people who committed either or both were bad. He’d at least had the advantage of growing up in a civilian-run orphanage. Orochimaru’s clan, like a lot of the smaller ones, survived on espionage and assassination even after being brought into the village. Maybe _especially_ after being brought into the villages; someone had to take the bulk of the jobs that the larger clans refused as dirty work, after all.

“Needed a change?” is all he asks, mild enough that not even an assassin would suspect a trap.

Even so, the lazy grin Genma flashes him says he suspects _something_ , even if he’s not explicitly calling Jiraiya out on it. “I looked around and realized I’d been living the same day over and over, maybe for years. Made me itch. ‘Sides, it’s a shame to know a jutsu like that and not be able to use it without help.”

That would be the shinobi version of a mid-life crisis, Jiraiya thinks with amusement, leaning back to let the waiter set a bowl down in front of him. Suddenly realizing you're not strong enough, that you’ve been going on different versions of the same mission for as long as you can remember, that you have nothing and no one outside of this life—even Jiraiya's felt it a time or two. Rising a rank generally helps, he’s noticed, as does expanding a skillset. Apparently Genma's trying for both. If he does manage the Hiraishin alone, he’ll be eligible for jounin whether he likes it or not, since it will put him in an entirely different class of fighter. Jiraiya wonders if he’s thought of that part, or if he’s still in the reactionary phase.

Probably the latter, given his bullheadedness. Jiraiya can't imagine it leaves room for much else. Minato's sure as hell didn’t.

“Your wife up and leave you?” he asks, working on a hunch, and has the pleasure of seeing that lazily amused mask slip all at once. Genma blinks at him, caught entirely off guard, and then snorts and sets his chopsticks down.

“Not married,” he answers firmly. “And if I was, I wouldn’t have a wife.”

Well, more ladies for him, so Jiraiya can't say he complains. He just huffs. “You know what I meant.”

Genma's gaze goes distant for a moment, vague. He picks up his tea again, cradling it between his hands, and tips one shoulder in a shrug. “I was stupid.”

“That’s hardly news,” Jiraiya tells him dryly. “If you weren’t, you wouldn’t have dragged yourself halfway across the country to find me on the off chance you're enough of a genius to follow in Minato's footsteps.”

That at least gets a reaction. Genma's head comes up, expression as deceptively lazy as a big cat with a gazelle almost in reach. “I'm not Minato. I don’t want to be. But I've used the Hiraishin before, he showed me how. I can do it again, by myself.”

Nothing but sincerity, Jiraiya judges. Pigheadedness, too, but he already knew that after today. With a faint sigh, he picks up his own chopsticks, and says abruptly, “Minato's biggest advantages with the learning Hiraishin were his reflexes and chakra control. It’s not as straightforward as it looks. You’ve got to have a head for tactics, too—where to come out, how to hit them, when to move.”

He doesn’t offer any more, but Genma looks thoughtful even so, nodding his thanks. Jiraiya starts on his meal, telling himself that he really doesn’t regret this. And besides, it’s the idiot’s own damn fault if he gets himself killed.

 

 

Late that night, snuggly tucked in his bed, Jiraiya wakes to the faint rustle of blankets, then more cloth. A moment later, the door opens and closes again, and silence descends.

Jiraiya rolls over and stubbornly doesn’t get up. It’s a little before midnight, and if Genma wants to exhaust himself into a coma, that’s his own damn business. He’s an adult, a shinobi, not a genin or a child. Let him do what he wants.

(He lies awake for several hours afterwards, listening to the noise from the street. Genma never comes back, and Jiraiya tells himself very firmly that he doesn’t care. He’s not wondering how the man is doing. Genma isn’t Minato. It doesn’t matter to him.

Himself remains entirely unconvinced by the litany.)

 

 

Kakashi isn’t a heavy drinker; most shinobi aren’t. When your entire existence is built on reflexes and instincts and being able to catch a senbon in midair as it comes flying at your throat, dulled responses may as well be a death sentence. Even in the middle of their home village, shinobi have a tendency to act drunk more often than they actually _get_ drunk.

(His father told him once, and he never forgot, that being a shinobi is less _what_ you are and far more _who_ you are. Kakashi's never seen it summed up in a better way.)

Still. A week and a half into training the new Team 7 and Kakashi is fairly certain that if he doesn’t drown his frustrations with something high-proof, he’s going to pull out every strand of his hair, one piece at a time. Since he can't pull off a bandana or early-onset baldness, better to get sloshed and pretend his team isn’t a train wreck for a few hours of peaceful intoxication.

The main jounin bar is a tiny little building at the end of a dark alley, unnamed and usually sparsely populated. It’s a weekend, though, so Kakashi expects a light crowd, and he isn’t disappointed; there are familiar faces scattered around the wide dimly-lit room, clustered in corners with line of sight on the doors or sitting with their backs to the wall as much as possible. Kakashi's seen civilians take one step inside this place, turn pale, and bolt—apparently they're not fans of the atmosphere. It’s understandable. After all, everyone in here is dangerous, and there's an unspoken acknowledgement that they’re all here for a reason, so grudges get left at the door. The fact that the owner and barkeep is former ANBU, and looks like she picks her teeth with chuunin and eats genin for a tea-time snack, probably helps with that too.

Kakashi is feeling at ease enough that he doesn’t try to stake out a table away from the door, but heads for the bar. The owner looks up from where she’s mixing a drink and nods politely, and Kakashi offers her a lazy wave, silently telling her he’s in no hurry. It gets him a smile, and he crinkles an eye in return as he looks for an open seat.

He finds one on the far side of Ibiki, who has his head bent together with Raidō and is carrying on a quiet but intent conversation, partially in shinobi hand-signs kept in close between them to avoid eavesdroppers. Raidō looks grim, and Ibiki’s expression has settled somewhere between annoyed and concerned, which is…unusual. Kakashi gives them a curious glance, hidden behind a check of the menu above the bar, and slides onto the empty stool.

It’s a bit of a surprise when Raidō turns away from Ibiki, downs his drink in a long swallow, and slaps some money onto the bar. “I’ll see you later,” he tells Ibiki tightly, then rises to his feet and stalks out. Kakashi would assume it was due to their argument, except for the fact that Raidō—usually friendly and easygoing, with a kind word for everyone—never once looks at him, or acknowledges him in any way. Feeling his brows rise, Kakashi half-turns, watching the big man slam out the door with an expression like murder.

“Ouch,” Aoba mutters from Kakashi's left, eyeing the remainder of his drink with something like regret. He sets it down, calls, “Ayako, put it on my tab,” to the owner, and then rises as well. He at least offers Kakashi a faint smile, though it’s far more subdued than his usual, and nods to Ibiki. “I’ll go after him.”

“Keep him from doing something stupid,” Ibiki orders with a grunt. “We’re shorthanded enough as it is. I don’t want to lose another assassination expert because he got himself locked up for idiocy.”

“You got it, boss-man,” Aoba says with a cheeky grin, offering up a salute. Ibiki snorts, waving him off, and Aoba saunters out the door, cheerful whistle just managing to cover the faint worry in his eyes.

“…Was it something I said?” Kakashi offers after a moment, keeping his tone light, but he really wants to narrow his eyes, go after Raidō in the shadows and listen in when Aoba finds him. He’s used to jealousy in the lower ranks, or someone taking offense at his mannerisms, but Raidō is generally above that kind of thing. He’s steady and dependable, was one of Minato's guards and Kakashi's classmates, and if he hates Kakashi now, Kakashi wants to know why.

Ibiki sighs and rubs a hand over his bandana-covered head. “Raidō’s just a bit touchy with Genma out of the village,” he says. “It’ll blow over. Don’t worry about it.”

Which, of course, makes Kakashi want to do just the opposite. After all, it’s not unusual for Genma to take missions out of the village—it’s more common than seeing him _in_ the village, honestly, because assassination requests are always plentiful and well-paying. Raidō’s never reacted like this before.

Apparently, Ibiki knows him well enough to read that on his face, because he gives Kakashi a flat look and swallows the rest of his drink, then pushes the glass across the bar. Ayako catches it on her way by, deposits another in front of Kakashi, and refills Ibiki’s before heading for the lone waitress and her overflowing tray.

“Leave it, Hatake,” Ibiki tells him firmly. “It’s all emotions. You wouldn’t want to get caught up in it anyway.”

Probably true, Kakashi acknowledges, and picks up his glass. High-proof, definitely, and strong enough to make his tongue feel numb—Ayako always knows just what people need. But…

But Kakashi is a nosey ass, even beyond the normal for a shinobi, and this is a perfect distraction from his dysfunctional team and the way they can't even pick up trash without the mission devolving into a brawl. He hums something that’s less agreement than it is “I hear your warning but I'm don’t give a shit and will do what I want”, swallows his drink and feels it burn all the way down, and then leaves enough money to cover it and slides away from the bar. Ibiki watches him go, clearly resigned but not about to do anything to stop him, and then shakes his head and turns back to his drinking.

Outside, there's no sound of raised voices to give anything away, but Kakashi doesn’t need them. The alley branches off just past the bar, one path heading back towards the main street, while the other cuts behind a restaurant. Everything smells overwhelmingly like day-old curry, but it’s still not enough to completely cover Raidō and Aoba's familiar scents. When Kakashi slinks around the corner, careful to keep to the deepest shadows, they're standing near the restaurant’s back door, under the faint illumination of the flickering light. Raidō has his arms folded over his chest, an impressive scowl on his scarred face, and Aoba is talking quickly in a low voice, hands sweeping and stabbing to emphasize his points.

“—think that you being rude is going to do anything but piss Genma off? Come on, Raidō! I _heard_ him tell you leave it alone!”

There's a long moment before Raidō sighs, reaching up to rub at the bridge of his nose. “I know,” he says, and it’s quiet and a little sad. “But Gen wouldn’t have left—”

“On a _training mission_ —”

“ _Even then_ , Aoba. You know Genma. If he couldn’t stay, it was because he thought he’d give something away, and he’s good. I just…”

Raidō sighs, but before he can say anything more, there's a chorus of angry, yowling screeches from further down the alley, and all three shinobi twitch. “Damn cats,” Aoba mutters, glancing over his shoulder—thankfully away from Kakashi—and grabs Raidō’s arm. “Come on. Let’s head for my place. Maybe something of this night is still salvageable.”

“Sorry.” Raidō sounds faintly sheepish. “I'm being an ass on your one night off, aren’t I?”

Aoba laughs, stretching up to slap his genin teammate on the back hard enough to make him stagger a little. (Kakashi knows from experience that Aoba's just about the best at being passive-aggressive.) “Just as planned,” he dismisses cheerfully. “Now we get to have my good sake, not the crap Ayako is serving.”

“Don’t let her hear you say that,” Raidō warns, amused. “I won't save you this time.”

“Lies and slander! I've never needed anyone to save me!”

“From Anko? Just this morning? Or from Kurenai yesterday, when you insulted her dress? From _Asuma_ when you insulted Kurenai’s dress?”

“Okay, in my defense, she is a beautiful woman but _no one_ can pull off that shade. It’s a crime against nature and I thought Kurenai had better taste than that.”

Kakashi lingers where he is as they walk away, bickering lightly, and then leans back against the stone and regards the opposite wall thoughtfully.

Genma was keeping a secret? Kakashi hadn’t been able to tell. Then again, Kakashi had at first been a little desperate to get out of the apartment before the ease soured into awkwardness, and then he’d been distracted by thoughts of Minato and everything he’d run to the bar to escape the night before.

Besides that, Genma's always been difficult to read. Even as a genin, he had a poker face not even Kakashi with his mask couldn’t match, and that at least hasn’t changed since they were kids. He’s not loud, not shy, not easily written off or readily remembered. The most memorable thing Kakashi knows about him is the fact that he was Gai's genin teammate, and that he’s always the first to volunteer to hunt down traitors.

He has a flash, just for a moment, of golden-grown skin over hard, sleek muscle, twisting beneath his hands, and has to breathe evenly. It’s been a long time since he actually spent the night with someone, longer still since he actually stayed until morning, and—

Genma was kind. He saw Kakashi's discomfort and ignored it the way Kakashi needed him to, made him coffee even if Kakashi didn’t drink it, and…

And once Kakashi had bolted, he left the village.

_If he couldn’t stay, it was because he thought he’d give something away, and he’s good._

But give _what_ away? Something to do with Kakashi, clearly, or the way they fucked, but pretty much all of those options leave Kakashi cringing away, because he _knows_ they're all emotional. None of them are anything he wants to consider.

It doesn’t matter, he tells himself firmly, turning to head back towards the street. Genma's on a training trip, and even if he wasn’t, the bar or the Jounin Standby Station is just about the only times they ever cross paths. Nothing’s going to come of it, and the residual awkwardness of falling into bed when they were drunk will wear off quickly enough with lack of exposure.

 _But you weren’t drunk that morning,_ a tiny little voice whispers in Kakashi's head. _Isn’t_ that _why you're feeling so strange about all of this?_

Kakashi pushes it down, shuts it out, buries it deep. He gathers up all those thoughts of Genma and golden skin and bright grins, black coffee and warm hands and Minato's kunai laid out so neatly, clearly well-loved. Not necessary, not required, extraneous baggage that he should discard as soon as possible.

And he does. He locks it all away, takes a breath, and thinks of his new team. Enough to drive him to drink, maybe, but far better to focus on than a one-night stand who’s out of the village and probably not going to be back any time soon.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [An Explosion of Feelings](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10648611) by [Ayay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ayay/pseuds/Ayay)




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